


Fiat Lux

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Body Dysphoria, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Play, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: In the aftermath of their victory, Samuel plans his next move. The Slayer seems determined to complicate things.
Relationships: Doom Slayer | Doomguy/Samuel Hayden
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	Fiat Lux

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I know nothing about robotic engineering, but what I do know is that Samuel Hayden is one sexy cyborg so let’s just pretend that it’s within the Slayer’s capabilities to fix him k? K. 
> 
> This takes place sometime between Eternal and its DLC. I haven’t played Ancient Gods myself yet, but I skimmed the wiki to make sure I didn’t go completely off-base. The body dysphoria tag is in relation to Samuel, because jumping from alien to human to cyborg to literal floating fortress has got to leave you feeling a little weird, right? 
> 
> This is more introspection than spicy content, for which I would apologize if I didn’t already know and accept my brand.

It is not unusual to find the Slayer hunched over his workbench in the lulls between missions. 

_Ideless_ does not come naturally to the man, and whether he has always been that way or whether it is another byproduct of his endless crusade, the Slayer is loathe to sit still. When not dismembering demons for blood and sport, he is liable to be found occupying himself in other ways— honing his weapons to near-savage perfection, or his body to equally lethal limits.

Samuel knows this, because he has spent an inordinate amount of time lately observing the Sentinel who stalks his halls. It is not entirely by choice. There is nothing within the bounds of the fortress which escapes his attention—a natural consequence of his integration into the station’s mainframe and its sprawling web of cameras and sensors. 

As he is now, he has little to do but watch. His research has been scattered to the wind—his facilities overrun and desecrated. Forced to alter his plans—alter _himself_ —beyond recognition once again, he is acutely aware that the balance of power has shifted. For all his new ability to traverse dimension and space, he has little independent mobility in this form. To accomplish anything of note requires the Slayer’s _cooperation_ \-- a notoriously elusive beast. 

And so Samuel watches, and he waits for opportunities to exert his influence. He spends his days cataloguing the cadence of the Slayer’s footsteps against his hull—uses his new eyes to track the man as he tinkers, and exercises, and flips through the inane magazines that pass for entertainment among demons and mortals. He becomes well-accustomed to his routines, and learns that it is not unusual to find the Slayer at his bench—tools and gun parts strewn around him like so much viscera.

That does not explain the rest of it. It does not offer insight as to why the Slayer has deigned to draw up his old schematics, nor why it is Samuel’s old frame that lies on the table in front of him, cold, and still, and spilling wires from the ruins of its chest. There is a pile of Makyr tech before him, scavenged from intermittent, and now more illuminating, trips to Urdak—pieces ripped from consoles and dying drones. There are other components too, an assortment of metal and cables which bear the familiar UAC branding. It is clear that the Slayer means to repair him. What stymies Samuel is the _why_. 

They are allies, of a kind, but it is an uneasy truce that exists between them since the Icon’s fall. Samuel, laden with unfinished plans and half-spoken revelations. The Slayer, balancing on the knifepoint of restlessness and rage—tempered enough by their recent victory to tolerate the information that Samuel doles out in increments, and the wellspring of answers that he yet withholds. The Slayer does not seem immediately inclined to evict Samuel from the structure, but he is aware that his usefulness is not without limit, and he has yet to determine how hard he can _push_.

They are, in short, still negotiating the terms of their symbiosis. And there is no good reason for the Slayer to desire to restore him to his prior self. Certainly no _tactical_ benefit, for Samuel’s abilities are far enhanced as the fortress. What the Slayer has need of, he can now ascertain and provide without a word. Everything contained within him—the knowledge of eons, bolstered by new facilities—is enough to keep his wayward warrior on the path to victory. His old frame is but a discarded husk. It cannot calibrate a portal to Hell, or generate new weaponry, or ensure that the Slayer skirts the grasp of their enemies when he, inevitably, must sleep.

So why?

Is it repayment? Samuel can only guess at what the Slayer has deduced from their time together, but he knows that his mask is peeling at the edges. Their history simmers between threatening to boil over in a swell of ancient conflicts and clandestine offers. But he does not think the Slayer, single-minded in his hatred, to be motivated by old debts—nor would they still his hand, should Samuel find himself at the receiving end of his judgement. 

Perhaps the Slayer has simply grown tired of a home that surveils him. Perhaps he is sick of Samuel’s unfettered access to him, of the eternal presence at his ear. The Slayer has always accepted his gifts, but his insistence on forging his own path remains as strong as ever. It is one of his more infuriating qualities.

Samuel ruminates in silence for a time as the Slayer dismantles his trophies, searching for the pieces he needs. He is not surprised at the Slayer’s ability to decipher the schematics; there is a keen mind hidden beneath the cloud of violence that ordinarily consumes him, and an affinity for weapons engineering that does not falter in the face of alien technology. When he lacks a piece that he cannot scavenge or replicate with the fortress’s tools, he improvises. Within a few days he has made significant progress in rebuilding one of Samuel’s missing legs. 

It is at this point that Samuel finds he can no longer keep silent.

“What,” he asks flatly, betraying none of the consternation that dominates his being, “are you doing?”

Predictably, he receives no answer. The Slayer’s reticence is a constant that he has grown used to. A man of few words, now a man of none, he acts as though his silence alone could combat Hell’s advance. However, in this case the Slayer does not even acknowledge the question. He does not pause, or deviate from his course, and in the span of another day has nearly finished with the leg in question. 

It is skeletal, bearing none of the smooth, white armour that Samuel still favours after all these years, and they will not know if it works until its connections have been reignited by way of attachment to his frame, but it exists between them—an incomprehensible offering. 

The Slayer retires for the night, and Samuel spends most of it mired in thought. In the silence of space, his attention is drawn again and again to the innocuous limb that glints at him from the workbench.

When the Slayer resumes his work the next morning, Samuel once again attempts to intervene. 

“This is unnecessary,” he deadpans, because it is not true that some part of him—however small—doesn’t want this. It _is_ , however, a waste of time and resources. Samuel ‘s comfort is not paramount. His life has been a series of sacrifices for the greater picture; he does not regret this one any more than the others.

In some ways, this body is more familiar than those previous. He no longer makes contact with the surface with each movement, for one, and why should he miss his legs, when it had taken so long to get used to them? Embodying the station takes every iota of his concentration, but what does it matter if it stretches him thin—leaves him with a muted sense of self—when it is Makyr technology, untainted by human influence, that cradles him? He has been many things, in many forms, and none will ever quite fit like the first. He does not see the point in returning him to his old frame, even if he sometimes misses the ability to gesticulate when he talks. Even if he would relish the chance to reach out and touch the world again. 

“It is a waste of your time,” Samuel says, voicing the thought from earlier. “You and I both know that you have other tasks to attend to.” 

The Slayer ignores him, and finishes the leg. 

By the ninth day, the missing pieces of his pelvis and midsection begin to take shape. By the fourteenth, he has feet again, and a disembodied hand lies beside the other pieces. The Slayer listens to music as he works—grating, industrial noise with a brutal tempo and no redeeming qualities—and has taken to turning it up whenever he wishes to drown out Samuel’s criticism. 

He wonders if this is merely another challenge for the Slayer—a way to pass the time. But the Slayer rarely does anything without purpose, and Samuel cannot imagine that he would be an exception.

When the Slayer is not focusing on his _rehabilitation_ , he continues his assault on Earth. Despite the looming shadow of the Dark Lord, the demons on Earth have failed to rally following the loss of their Icon. The Slayer has preoccupied himself with clearing out the last of their strongholds, and those that have not already crawled back to the nether from which they came are torn to shreds within minutes of his arrival. 

Samuel finds a degree of satisfaction in accompanying him on those missions. The Slayer’s power has always been something to witness, and to experience it firsthand, from behind the shield of his visor, is enough to leave one breathless—never mind that Samuel has not had to draw breath for years. The desire to wield him—his living weapon, so close at hand—to point him in the direction of those who would oppose his vision, burns in his core. They could reshape this plane in their image, and to the Father’s creations they would seem the ultimate divinity. 

For now, however, Samuel is content to wade in the bloody path that the Slayer forges. They are at a crossroads, the two of them, but he is unsure if the deal they strike will fall in his favour, so he bides his time. An opportunity will arise; it always does. 

By the twentieth day, Samuel concedes to the Slayer’s will. 

His arm too, has been completed, and there is a stack of plating piled by a corner of the bench, simply waiting to be affixed to its underlying structure. But now the Slayer’s work must turn to that which was damaged. He cannot integrate the new parts until the frame’s shredded connections and friend circuits have been dealt with, and even then, they may not take. It will be a painstaking process, one with a high chance of failure, regardless of how well he has interpreted Samuel’s schematics. And Samuel does not necessarily relish the thought of the Slayer’s inelegant hands rooting around in his internals without supervision. 

“If you are determined to persist, I will direct you,” he says, as the Slayer reaches for the exposed wiring at the joint of his elbow. And for the first time, the Slayer pauses. 

Samuel takes it as permission. And if it is not, it does not stop him from walking the Slayer through the reattachment. Piece by piece, the limb becomes part of the whole. When the Slayer uses an electric current to test the connection, the shell’s new fingers twitch. It is by all accounts, a success.

And yet, something in Samuel is left dissatisfied. This is— was— his body, but he feels apart from the process in a way that is disconcerting, as though he is looking in on his own surgery. He watches the Slayer’s fingers manipulate the fine wiring and interlocking plates with surprising dexterity, and wishes that he could feel it for himself. 

“Re-establish my connection with the frame,” he instructs him. “There is a cortical port on the back of its head.” 

It is only practical, he tells himself. There will be other, unseen damages that they need to address, which will be simpler with Samuel able to grant access to his more tightly locked regions. 

The Slayer finds the access panel easily enough. Inside, there are actually two ports— one adapted for the necessity of human technology, and one which will provide a snug fit for the Makyr cables which surround them now.

Samuel braces himself, but is still unprepared for the rush of data that accompanies reconnection. With no argent to power his frame, it draws on the cable, bleeding the fortress— himself— of its vast reserves. The frame’s biolights reignite as heat and power surge through it, the sharp prickle of demonic energy that edges on too much. The frame spasms involuntarily, and the Slayer’s hand clamps down on his chassis to hold him in place. 

His sensors all fire at once, checking and rechecking connections, and relaying their findings back to him. Samuel files away the damage alerts, and makes note of compromised systems as he works to get the flood of information under control. As the fortress, he spends so much time maintaining life support and other systems that he does not have the capacity to process minor tactile distractions, such as debris battering against his hull. In this frame, he feels everything. He has forgotten, in his time as the Slayer’s sanctuary, how concentrated everything is at this size. Even the Slayer’s hand burns, where it presses against his core.

In a moment, the sensory onslaught settles—no less intense, but manageable—and Samuel is left with the disorienting sensation of being in two places at once. His frame has a techno-organic cortex, which he is now inhabiting again, but he has not vacated the fortress, and it feels less as though he has grown another limb and more as if he has been split into two conjoined, but separate selves. What one feels, the other echoes. 

For the time being, Samuel focuses on his reawakened frame. He lifts his unarmoured hand, and flexes his fingers. It is not exactly the same as his old one—rather, a half-scavenged approximation— but that is fine.

“You may continue,” he informs the Slayer.

And it is then that Samuel realizes that he has failed to account for a few things. Like before, the wires must be stripped and repaired, and the Slayer approaches the task as he does all others, with brutal efficiency. With his pain sensors disabled, Samuel’s frame translates the sensation the best it can. Unfortunately, that means that he must brace himself against the lightning that zings up his sensornet with each brusque flick of the Slayer’s wrist. Instead of agony, the rough rasp of the pliers sparks an unexpected heat in him. 

Samuel knows that it is too late to reverse this course, however. He must see it through.

It takes all of his will to keep his voice and frame unresponsive, as he guides the Slayer through repairing the mess of his midsection. To not twitch as stray cables are brushed aside with thoughtless motions, sending jolts of _not-pain, maybe pleasure_ shooting up his spine. For a moment, Samuel imagines that the tubes spilling out of him look like tentacles, a snapshot of another life. 

“You will need to— “ he pauses with a small hitch, as the Slayer completes the repair on his own, crimping the cable with a force that almost whites out his vision. “Exactly.”

There are parts that need to be soldered, and the heat of the tool is almost too much, as it sends stray sparks into Samuel’s most vulnerable circuitry. These are nodes that were never meant to see the light of day, let alone be stimulated with heat and fire, and they respond with increasingly strong neural pulses that shock him still with their intensity. 

Samuel tries to withdraw from the frame an iota, to take refuge in the fortress and spare himself the worst of it, but it proves a futile effort. It is too hard to separate the two parts of himself, and too easy to sink back into the tingling haze of overstimulated sensors. The heat spreads like a virus, dominating his awareness.

When the Slayer takes hold of his spinal strut—the centrepoint for so many nerve clusters and sensor relays—in order to feel it over for damage and loose parts, Samuel is too late to choke back the burst of static that emerges from his vocalizer. He resists the urge to clamp down what remains of his paneling—prepares to snap at the Slayer about sensor relays and involuntary reactions—but the Slayer doesn’t react. He continues working as though Samuel is nothing more than another piece of equipment at his bench. It is somehow more infuriating. 

Samuel is humanity's saviour. He towers above them, two metres tall—he is not _fragile_. But he is aware of how easily the Slayer could crush him beyond repair, as he feels his way along the pulsing metal of his spine. He knows the raw power in those hands, and has seen firsthand the carnage wrought by the demon he is allowing to know him inside and out. It does little to temper his arousal. 

Samuel very pointedly does not think about how, were he in his original vessel, there would be an aperture right below the Slayer’s position, a sliver of vestigial anatomy that would cleave to a firm press. He is Samuel—in a frame of his own design, in a building that bends to suit its Sentinel. He will not dwell on what might have been, or what might still be. 

When his lower chassis and pelvis have been realigned, slotting into place with a pneumatic hiss, Samuel nearly sags with relief. 

The Slayer is even less careful with his legs, now having learned the routine. Samuel stops guiding him through the process, and focuses on regaining some sense of control. It is easier said than done, as the cumulative effect of the Slayer’s touch has set his sensornet to high alert. He still parses each contact as a small thrill, spikes of pleasure branching out from each tweaked wire or tugged cable. 

Another leg attached and tested. They are in the final stages now, and Samuel needs only endure this a small while longer. He had thought to have the Slayer crack open his chest and deal with the minor damages he can still sense there, but now he believes that he will attend to the rest himself. He’s not sure if it’s been minutes, or hours, but he feels… overstimulated. Stripped bare. The heat is stifling, and he’s sure that the Slayer is aware of the spin of his fans as they work to cool his overtaxed systems. He hopes that he has not noticed the way the lights have begun to flicker intermittently.

The Slayer’s hand steadies his thigh, exerts firm pressure against exposed parts as he pops the final limb into place.

And then Samuel is whole again, and that feels like a release of its own.

The Slayer withdraws, and Samuel takes a moment to compose himself before he sits up carefully. He tests each of his limbs, and finds that the connections are stable, if not as fine-tuned as before. His capacitors ache with excess charge, but that is another matter entirely. He clears his throat on instinct, an annoyingly human affectation, before speaking. 

“I maintain that this was an unnecessary procedure,” he begins, tilting his head to meet the Slayer’s impassive gaze. “However, it appears to have been a success. This frame is now functioning at 76% capacity.” 

Now, there is a decided air of smugness about the Slayer. 

“I will see to the rest of the repairs myself,” Samuel informs him. “Including the reattachment of my armour. It will be a good test of my motor functions.”

The Slayer has begun to clear the table of the scraps that litter it, sweeping them into a bucket on the floor. He snorts. Dismissive. 

“I do not require any further assistance,” Samuel reiterates. 

He goes to move from the bench, and that is evidently not allowed because the Slayer reaches out and a hand stops him in his place. Samuel may as well be trying to move through a wall. He is shoved pointedly back onto the table, which does little to clear his buzzing circuits. 

“Surely we should make sure that my legs are functioning properly,” Samuel says. He receives no response.

He goes to move again, and this time the Slayer catches him firmly by the helm. The touch is so piercingly familiar, that for an instant he is transported back in time—to a meeting between a taciturn Outlander, and an ambitious Seraphim. That split moment of distraction is enough for the Slayer. Something jabs Samuel in the side, and he wonders incredulously for one second if he has just been stabbed—undoing hours of hard work— before he parses that it is the implement the Slayer had been using to test his motor functions earlier, and a wave of electricity ripples over his already-sensitized neural net. 

Sudden, sharp pleasure spills over his frame, and his systems, unsure what to do with all the excess charge, crash into an overload. A cascade of looping feedback, and bright, dizzying sensation consumes him. There is a brief, painfully good spike as the Slayer’s rough fingers grasp at the plug at the back of his head, and then it is ripped out, severing the connection at its source and leaving Samuel reeling with the loss. He occupies one space again, and can only watch the final, minute twitches of his frame as the charge runs its course.

There is a calendar beside the Slayer’s desk. He taps it as he leaves, knowing that Samuel is watching. 

_Tomorrow_.

Samuel seethes. He is struck again by how presumptuous the Slayer has become, how _arrogant_ in his defiance. He is also, despite himself, a little bit impressed. He is still not used to being defied.

He settles back into the hum of the fortress. The Slayer may hold all the cards, for the time being, but Samuel has stacked the deck. 

He thinks that, perhaps, it is time the Seraphim made his return.

In the meantime, he will look forward to tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> I _thought_ that this would be the end of it. That I would get the DOOM fic out of my system and be done with it. But unfortunately now that they’ve confirmed Samuel/Samur is one hot, hot makyr I’m sure I’ll be back to write something for all you funky lil monster fuckers out there. 
> 
> In the meantime, you’ll find me writing Transformers fic, so check out my other works if you’re so inclined ;D
> 
> Follow me on twitter @spidingsadly!


End file.
